Content warning: mental health conditions, self-harm.

Intimate and confronting, I N P A T I E N T or How I Spent my Summer Vacation opens your eyes to serious mental health conditions and makes you face up to your views on them.

Writer and performer Sarah Andrews Reynolds provides a fictitious but grounded view of her lived experiences with mental illness. Through her stories, she normalises talking about mental health and forces us to sit with perspectives we may not have considered.

In this one-woman show, set during a group therapy session in a private psychiatric hospital in Walnut Creek, San Francisco, Reynolds plays many characters with various mental health conditions: schizophrenia, bipolar disorder, clinical depression, and more. Each characterisation is strong and distinct, proving this performer’s breadth of talent. The characters feel heartbreakingly real, reminding us that we need to be more aware of those living with mental health conditions around us.

Despite mental illness being a central theme, the show has many moments of comic relief, ensuring it never becomes dredging. Yet, by Reynolds’ account, psychiatric hospitals don’t sound like hospitals at all; they sound like prisons. Contrasting humour with the depiction of a harsh reality makes the work both devastating and compelling.

Many moments land as powerful, intense, traumatic, and uncomfortable all at once – such as Reynolds’ ‘Beautiful Girl’ monologue. You cannot relax in this show; you are forced to feel everything. At times, it is viscerally uncomfortable, especially with the makeup effects (BodyFX) depicting instances of self-harm.

As Reynolds aptly puts it, it is the end of the beginning when it comes to reframing how we view mental health conditions – not just in Aotearoa, but the world.

This is a necessary piece of theatre, shining a light on struggles that so many endure while many others remain oblivious. Come to The Studio at BATS Theatre and experience all the emotions this moving piece on mental health brings.

Instant Theatre is a fully improvised, character-driven performance of real people in real situations. With no scripts, no games, and nothing prepared, three performers (Sarah Ashill, Thomas Bauer, and Tony Yuile) spontaneously create new lives and their stories each night.

With just a prompt from the audience for two emotions – anger and ecstasy – to guide the direction of the narrative, these talented actors created the simple but beautiful story of a couple experiencing the 13-year itch and trying to rekindle the flames of romance on a dream vacation at a tropical resort. The wife, Angie, is keen for adventure and excitement while husband Tom just wants to do what they usually do on holiday – sit by the pool and drink cocktails. Jealousy raises its ugly head when Angie goes for surfing lessons with a hunky instructor, but these classes save the day when Tom finally decides to venture outside his comfort zone and steps into the waves alongside his wife. Angie’s best friend Janice also enters the picture secretly occupying the room next door, while Tom makes friends with the mysterious Charlie over drinks and chess.

Unlike other improv troupes, these actors don’t employ random props or silly hats to tell their tale. Their stories come from the heart with just four stools to provide some physical variations and well-timed blackouts from coach Ben Zolno on the lighting desk to shift the scene. This spareness of staging provides for authenticity, and audible ‘aahs’ from the audience accompanied the most heartfelt moments.

Like all good character-driven stories, I was left wanting more. Why did Angie feel the need to bring her bestie on a supposedly romantic getaway? Who is Charlie exactly and why does he come to this resort every year? Will the brief encounter between these two lead to anything? Of course, with limited time and a spontaneous story, these questions can never be answered, but it’s a testament to the rich layering these improvisers can achieve that I even considered such questions.

With the current government’s ‘tough on crime’ stance, Iron is a timely work for Stagecraft Theatre to have chosen. Rona Munro’s sharply drawn drama about a mother and daughter reconnecting after 15 years apart is given a heavy weight of meaning by being set in a women’s prison, where inmates and guards alike are institutionalised by the straitjacket of punishment.

Fay (Karen Anslow) was locked up for killing her husband. This left her daughter Josie (Ivana Palezevic), a child at the time, deeply traumatised and destined to become a successful but lonely adult. Supervising their visits are two guards (James Bayliss and Helen Mackenzie Hughes) whose personal lives and attitudes have been shaped by the work they do far more than they should be.

The cast of this production are excellent. Anslow draws out Fay’s complexities and passions with skill and energy. Palezevic is awkward and devastatingly emotional as her troubled daughter who just wants to be able to remember. Their relationship is believable as it deepens and evolves with each visit.

Bayliss imbues his guard George with humour and paternalism over his female charges while he scoffs from Josie’s well-meaning fruit baskets. Mackenzie Hughes’ guard Sheila is uncomfortably hardened by the overstepping, love-hate relationship she has with Fay.

The traverse set (Neil Wallace) brings the audience close to the stage and involved in the story as the actors occasionally break the fourth wall to include them. The transformation that moves the action to the prison garden is a lovely moment of creativity. The stark lighting (Jamie Byas) and monochrome wardrobe (Rosie Glover) add to the grimness of the prison setting. I would like to have seen the actors given more dynamic movement to match the quality of their performances, as the static blocking has two characters sitting and talking across a table for long periods of time.

With its topical themes, well-crafted relationships, and engaging performances, Iron will leave you with much to mull over.

How does Nick Ascroft regard himself? This is the question that pervades my mind on a reading of It’s What He Would’ve Wanted. Or perhaps contemplation is a more accurate word. The title’s eponymous poem gives voice to the writer’s supposed quandary: how important is he? Or, for that matter, his last wishes? Almost every set of lines in this poem expresses mutually exclusive reactions to the death we must all submit to. One of my favourites is: “If my funeral planner is reading this wondering what I would’ve wanted, appreciate that I would not have wanted a funeral planner.” There’s defiance too. “In life I was haunted by regret, so in death I will flip the roles and haunt it back.” I just hope our poet gets his final wish!

The Time I Shook Allen Curnow’s Huge Paw is a delightfully self-deprecating verse celebrating several brushes with famous literary figures. Aspiring poets may envy “and oh the time I talked at Keri Hulme.” Aspiring poets who disdain rhyme / may also come to realise / rhyme’s not actually out of time!

I can’t let Dire Diary go without a wince! A visit to the dental hygienist who ministers – albeit tenderly – to our poet’s gumline evokes memories of lost love, of desire, of love in general. But from love we go to courage. “It takes bravery to throw yourself at someone.” Though “I don’t mean my hygienist” keeps us on track. Take courage reader – Ascroft is urging you to!

He now lets loose with some vulgarity in Old Farts, excused perhaps by his reference to playing Scrabble, avowedly one of the poet’s more intellectual activities. More rhyming here – evidence that humour and rhyme make an effective combination. Vulgarity gives way to ribaldry in Synonyms for Vag – heads-up for a vocabulary lesson!

As a nod to today’s mundane world, one of Ascroft’s final poems constitutes an ironic lament for supermarket payment methods: Do You Wish to Continue? Yes please, Nick – and I hope this review is what you would’ve wanted!

When it comes to teen icons and Hollywood royalty there are few that surpass Lindsay Lohan and Jamie Lee Curtis respectively. Together in the early 2000s, they made what my generation would call cinematic gold in Freaky Friday. Co-starring in the 2025 sequel Freakier Friday, they’ve mined somewhat of a diamond in the rough, full of messy and sparkly moments in equal measure, but no less dazzling.

I might be biased in saying I enjoyed Freakier Friday immensely considering I grew up on a steady diet of early 2000s teen movies, but who am I to rebuke a reboot and miss out on reliving the angsty, digital nostalgia of my childhood? It doesn’t quite live up to its 2003 counterpart, but that doesn’t mean it’s not a bit of fun.

What Freakier Friday does best is bring itself into 2025 without losing the charm it had in 2003. Incorporating current pop culture and ideas, it rehashes the teen daughter-young mum dynamic without seeming like an outdated trope thanks to director Nisha Ganatra. Plus, the script is flipped this time: Anna (Lohan) and her mum Tess (Curtis) get along beautifully in adulthood; it’s with her own daughter Harper (Julia Butters) and stepdaughter Lily (Sophia Hammons) that she doesn’t always see eye to eye. The best part about Freaky Friday was seeing a kid enjoy the freedoms (and responsibilities) of being an adult, and this remains true as we watch Lohan and Curtis galivant across the screen as ‘teenagers’. Their performances are formidable and relatable. Their enjoyment is palpable, as is costume designer Natalie O’Brien’s, but the outfits just aren’t quite as iconic as they were in 2003 – the soundtrack, however, is just as banging.

Where Freakier Friday misses the mark is in the story. With more characters comes more complications. It’s fun and it’s silly, with several callbacks to the original, but there are moments that seem random, unnecessary, rushed, and overall a bit weak.

That being said: “I haven’t watched a fun movie like that in a long time. It’s put me in such a silly mood,” my friend said before we scurried off down the road chanting Take Me Away at the top of our lungs. And I couldn’t agree more.

In December 2023, the activist group Te Waka Hourua caused a nationwide furore when they abseiled into Te Papa and painted over the three articles of the English Treaty of Waitangi Exhibition to read: “No. Her Majesty the Queen of England the alien. ration the Queen’s veges.” This ‘redaction action’ provoked strong opinions across Aotearoa with some singing their praises and others calling for retribution. While all the artists were charged, only one – Te Wehi Ratana – got jail time. He spent 48 hours in Rimutaka Prison, about which most of this out-there and poignantly funny play is concerned. In the most unlikely of circumstances, Ratana’s hard-core cellmate Brian and 180 nicotine lozenges inspired a movement for change.

Playing Ratana, Brian, and an unnamed actor tasked with bringing this (mostly) true story to life is Ngahiriwa Rauhina. Full of energy, talent, and passion for this overtly self-aware tale, he commands the audience’s attention. Deftly switching between characters, he bounces around the cleverly designed stage (Nicole Marsh) in his orange prison jumpsuit and cool Michael Jackson Toitū Te Tiriti T-shirt (costume design also Nicole Marsh) delivering quick-fire dialogue and frequent direct address without pause.

Supporting Rauhina is the chameleonic voice of Roy Iro as the intimidating but ultimately soft-hearted prisoner Junior, plus a host of other characters. Excellently creative and well-timed projection (designer Jane Hakaraia, operator Marshall Rankin) and an entertaining soundtrack (Connor Magatogia) also provide context and visual comedy for Rauhina to perform with. Ironic props (Nicole Marsh again) of road cones, a tino rangatiratanga flag, and a guitar add to the assumption-defying nature of this production.

ration the Queen’s veges is as audacious a piece of Māori theatre as the original act of frustrated protest that inspired it. As Rauhina declares: “Do the mahi, get the treats” – make the effort to see this show and you’ll be justly rewarded with a unique piece of theatricality about a singularly Aotearoa display of defiance.

This show acts as a cringeworthy (see what I did there) and hilarious history lesson about one of the most iconic decades of music for mankind. Get Down on It with Cringeworthy: The 90s, featuring iconic choreography (Andrea Sanders and Devon Neiman) and songs like …Baby One More Time, How Bizarre. We Like to Party, and Silly Love Songs.

The show begins with four authentically 90s performers – Sanders, Neiman, Kali Kopae, and Jared Pallesen. Each one of them rocks their body through each number, and the singing would make Alanis Morissette proud. The group is incredibly NSYNC with each other. Just when you think it can’t get any better, Mackenzie Htay – a Gen Z with his heart in the 20th century – joins in Act Two for even more boyband-crazy moments.

The quips are side-splitting, and the whole production feels reminiscent of Six: The Musical, only this time about all things 90s. I cannot commend the choreography enough – each performer dances with absolute vigour from start to finish, and it’s no wonder the audience is cheering throughout. The costuming (in collaboration with Creative Show Off Costume Hire and the cast) is fly, while the set (Mitch Sigley) provides some clever and interesting nods to the era.

Despite being born close to the 90s, I feel like I am the youngest person in the audience. But that does not Sway me – I still feel completely immersed in this decade and am MMMBop-ping the entire time. Cringeworthy: The 90s is fun, uplifting, and educational. I hope the producers (Beatgirl Productions) continue the series with an instalment all about the noughties.

Words can’t do it justice, so breakdance your way down to Circa Theatre: “you gotta know to understand” just how incredible this show is.

PS: I don’t apologise for how many puns I’ve just written, because This Is How We Do It with a review of this kind.

While Tāwhirimātea (Māori god of wind and weather) and Te Ihorangi (Māori god of rain) reminded us we are still looking forward to spring in Wellington, the NZSO lifted our spirits to remind us the blast of winter will give way to the new season soon in Ascension, the second concert of their Rumakina Immerse Festival.

Vesa-Matti Leppänen, playing the now, sadly, late Michael Hill’s own violin, took to the skies as The Lark Ascending, an early 20^th-century English classic. The violin has a beautiful tone, bringing light and shade to the birdsong even when the lark was at his highest. We have skylarks in New Zealand too and Ralph Vaughan Williams’ evocation of English skies and rolling hills translates into our landscape and light.

Papatūānuku is the outcome of a remarkable collaboration between taonga pūoro expert Jerome Kavanagh Poutama and composer Salina Fisher. In his pre-concert talk, Poutama spoke of how his music is all held in his head, each piece bound to a memory of the time, place, and event of its creation. Fisher’s orchestration was written to wrap around and support Poutama’s melodies and there were some beautiful matches between traditional orchestral instruments and the many taonga pūoro (singing treasures) Poutama used to give voice to Papatūānuku, the Earth Mother. A wonderful instrumental rendition of the dawn chorus instantly reminded me of hearing that amazing natural phenomenon on Kapiti Island, a conservation reserve rich in birdlife. The fluttering, twittering, flurrying, and calling on stage was as close to the real thing as you could get.

In contrast, Robert Schumann’s Symphony No. 1 Spring is firmly of the classic Romantic era. Traditional in form and more familiar to the ear than Papatūānuku, the sound was perfectly balanced and expertly played. Conductor André De Ridder’s direction was joyful, directive but nuanced and engaging. We will all look forward to seeing more of him when he takes up the role of NZSO’s musical director from 2027. Haere mai, Maestro!

Wellington’s weather lined itself up perfectly for the opening concert of the NZSO’s 2025 Rumakina Immerse Festival, although the title of Modest Mussorgsky’s Night on Bald Mountain could be an understatement for the state of the streets on a cold, wet, windy night in August. The violins, brass, and percussion set up the witches’ sabbath gathering, shrieking and howling most convincingly before eventually resolving into an uneasy peace, led by clarinet and then the flutes. Later, when we left the Michael Fowler Centre the wind and rain had eased off, perhaps just in time for the Cuba Street partygoers heading out to meet the witches turning for home.

Domestic magic was very much the theme for the next item, Paul Dukas’ The Sorcerer’s Apprentice. The opening theme sounded like there were cobwebs in the corners and the apprentice was taking an extended break. The pace picks up as the boy gets to work and when the bassoon and glockenspiel play off each other, you know the magic has been instilled into the broom. Made famous by Disney’s Fantasia, the music is terrifically visual for anyone who knows the film. For anyone without the mental images, the orchestra did a fine job of portraying the mayhem and panic as the broom gets out of control.

A more powerful magician is at work in Igor Stravinsky’s Petrushka, bringing puppets to life. The innovation in Stravinsky’s composition is evident from the start. Early sounds of dissonance are later fully realised as the composer uses two unrelated keys to show the dual natures of a puppet who has been made to live. The flutes and trumpets combined well to lead us into the seduction of the Ballerina. The orchestra responded to the direction of conductor André de Ridder (announced as the new NZSO music director from 2027) with nicely balanced accents and intensity conveying action, colour, and all the drama of Petrushka’s life and death.

Docking half a star for the ending! Look, I’m a sucker for the type of unresolved conclusion that makes most people angrily shake their fist at the sky. Exhibit A: La La Land – perfect movie, no notes. Exhibit B: Inception – it’s the way it had to be. I love when you invest hours of your time and become emotionally attached to characters only to find that, like in life, the ending is not tied up in a pretty little bow like you’d hoped for. But Riviera Revenge? That cut deep, and if you can’t tell, I’m slightly mad about it.

Up until the final three minutes, this film was everything I had hoped for in a French summer rom-com. Scandal, slapstick, scenery, and, most importantly, strong female characters who take no slack from men. We love a stylish, self-assured queen in her seventies. What more could you ask for?

Written and directed by Ivan Calbérac, Riviera Revenge follows the story of Annie (Sabine Azéma) and François Marsault (André Dussollier), a former military general. After being happily married for 50 years, François discovers 40-year-old letters in his attic revealing his wife’s torrid affair with their Niçoise friend Boris Pelleray (Thierry Lhermitte). Resolved to avenge the deed to the dismay of his wife and their three adult children, he goes hunting for the culprit on the Côte-d’Azur.

With no shortage of scenic shots and saturated in the essence of a summer spent along the European Riviera, Philippe Guilbert’s cinematography alone would have won me over in the cold depths of our New Zealand winter. Add perfectly timed editing from Reynald Bertrand, a suitably stylish French wardrobe from costume designer Rebecca Renault, and expertly fashioned sub-plots stitched into the story, and you’ve concocted the perfect recipe for a rom-com à la francaise. Not to mention the kind of finely tuned, subtle acting you get only from veteran performers at the peak of their power.

Light-hearted, cheeky, and suitably silly with just the right amount of sass and sauce, saunter to Riviera Revenge in cinemas, but be warned: N’avoue jamais or never admit – the original title – is perhaps a better indicator of what to expect!

This is my first encounter with the Prefab Hall venue, and I am impressed. The glass and cathedral-grain plywood interior is an ideal backdrop for this intimate chamber music performance. There is minimal but effective stage dressing consisting of suitcases, sheet music, and candles. In the front row, we are within touching distance of the cellists.

The production includes many thoughtful touches. The programme notes for each piece are written by a different musician, and include their personal musings and emotional responses to the works. Before each musical work, NZSQ violinist Peter Clark reads a poem by a well-known author from Aotearoa. Each poem is cleverly chosen to resonate with the themes of the music. It’s an effective convention; the poems feel almost like palate cleansers between courses of rich food.

We begin stirringly, with the newly formed Antipodes Quartet in their Wellington debut, playing Dmitri Shostakovich’s String Quartet No. 7 in F-sharp minor. Right from violinist Mana Waiariki’s adroit opening the quartet are precisely attuned to each other. This is an emotionally and structurally complex work, which I last saw performed by the internationally renowned Borodin Quartet, yet I was astounded and moved by this rendition.  

Antipodes Quartet follow the Shostakovich with Gao Ping’s A Lingering Echo – homage to Dmitri Shostakovich. We then have a reshuffling of musicians. Antipodes Quartet cellist Lavinnia Rae is joined by two New Zealand String Quartet members and guest violinist Arna Morton for Shostakovich’s String Quartet No. 6 in G major. It’s a tremendous pleasure to see these different combinations of artists working together, especially at such close quarters when the minutiae of their techniques can be appreciated.

All eight musicians return to the stage for the decadent and diabolical final work, Shostakovich’s Two Pieces for String Octet. The octet produces a gloriously balanced sound – each young musician synergistic with their counterpart. Luminary cellist Inbal Megiddo is especially magnificent, drawing overwhelmingly beautiful phrases from her instrument.

Party Faithful is a remarkable concert programme, presenting two symphonies – both Aotearoa premieres – by 20^th-century masters. Dmitri Shostakovich’s Symphony No. 3 in E-flat Major, Op. 20 The First of May, and Benjamin Britten’s Symphony for Cello and Orchestra, Op. 68 both emerged from complex times in the artists’ careers, when each composer was publicly celebrated yet privately vulnerable. The two men were near exact contemporaries: while Shostakovich navigated his perilous acclaim under the shadow of Stalin’s purges, Britten lived a precarious double life in England – a semi-closeted gay man, who nevertheless enjoyed the official patronage and personal friendship of the British Royal Family.

We open with Britten’s Symphony for Cello and Orchestra, an intellectually demanding work composed for the legendary Russian cellist Mstislav Rostropovich. Soloist Lev Sivkov joins the orchestra, and from the outset commands the stage. The piece unfolds as a series of musical affirmations and challenges that threaten to destabilise the work, before once again allowing the soloist enough momentum to counterbalance the orchestra. Sivkov’s characteristically intense style extracts each phrase with precision, switching deftly between tones in an assortment of grainy, breathy, and rumbling theme-fragments. He fires volleys only to cut them off abruptly, or detonates hard-struck chords only to demur and dapple us with a warm, golden cadenza. The audience is engrossed, and even Sivkov’s fellow musicians seated around him seem transfixed by his playing.

By the time Shostakovich composed the symphony featured in tonight’s programme, his friend and fellow composer Mikhail Kvadri – who had received the dedication of his extraordinary First Symphony – had already been executed. Fittingly then, the Shostakovich we hear in this Third Symphony brims with political contempt and anxiety. The work uses a single-movement structure, with marches, brass flourishes, and lyrical passages tripping over each other in their desperation to proclaim the praises of the Soviet State, without a single theme repeated. The conclusion is a driven and disquieting fanfare, culminating in a compelling choral section from the Orpheus Choir.

There are so few opportunities to enjoy collaborations like this one that the audience dived wholeheartedly into the enormously uplifting experience Mana Moana offered us. The very full programme was a repertoire of songs from around the Pacific Islands arranged for Signature Choir and the NZSO. “Pasifika music is grounded in storytelling, vocal interplay, and spiritual expression while orchestral music brings scale, structure, and emotional range,” Signature Choir founder and music director Fepulea’i Helen Tupai says.

The Signature Choir embraces more than 50 vocalists, and was formed three years ago in Te Whanganui-a-Tara Wellington to promote Pacific language and culture through music. The local audience loves their local choir and plenty of waves, smiles, greetings, and eye contact between singers and family in the crowd added to the palpable excitement in the sold-out auditorium.

We voyaged between the Cook Islands, Fiji, Niue, Samoa, Tokelau, and Tonga, guided by exceptional talent: Helen Tupai and Jadrah Tupai, director and co-director of the Signature Choir; Brent Stewart conducting the NZSO; and MC Tofiga Fepulea’i. With one of Aotearoa’s leading comedians at the helm, the evening was filled with laughter as well as the simple but powerful happiness inspired by the music.

And the music was awesome. The choir was superbly supported by the orchestra. Voices might sometimes be overwhelmed by instruments but not in this performance. The sounds of the Pacific were front and centre and the orchestra proved how musical traditions can step out of their familiar spaces. Western culture claimed the term ‘classical’ for its music and musicians, but the NZSO showed us how they can flex those boundaries. Expert arrangements and wonderful performances demonstrated how cultures can combine in musical and metaphorical harmony. Whoops, cheers, dancing, clapping, singing, laughter, and delight were the other prominent sounds of the evening, all of them rapidly growing in the last quarter of the show. Pure joy.

After reading The Futures of Democracy, Law and Government: Contributions to a conference in honour of Sir Geoffrey Palmer, I have a renewed appreciation for the laws that make up our society. While I was just a boy and not interested in politics when Sir Geoffrey took office, I can now honestly say that I retroactively appreciate him.

Starting as a law professor and then an MP representing Christchurch, in 1979, he went on to help form the fourth Labour Government as their justice minister. He was responsible for helping to develop many acts in this capacity, including the New Zealand Bill of Rights, before becoming our 33^rd prime minster in 1989.

The Futures of Democracy, Law and Government is a series of essays by eminent judges, scholars, and politicians who discuss elements of his career in public affairs. The book explains why things are the way they are and the role political parties play in our Westernised democratic system, touching on human rights and the Treaty of Waitangi as well as a host of other things we sometimes take for granted.

My favourite part of the essay collection was finding out about Sir Geoffrey’s understanding of the environment and how climate change would affect not only individuals but businesses as well. There was a need, as the book says, to safeguard the environment for future generations.  

Despite being a very thorough read, I never felt intimidated by the subject matter of The Futures of Democracy, Law and Government. While I am by no means a politician, the writing was easy to follow and I was able to grasp many of the concepts laid down. While I enjoyed the book and it made me appreciate the laws that are in place today, I can see how someone who isn’t into politics to begin with might not be convinced to start tuning in.

In short, if you love politics, I wholeheartedly suggest picking this book up. Even if you don’t, I still recommend checking it out to see if it’s for you. I suspect you will not regret it.

In The Stars are a Million Glittering Worlds, Central America promises to be an all-encompassing escape from the guilt-ridden shores of Aotearoa for Thea. There, she joins Chris, the elusive man she’s thought of exploring the possibility of having more than friendship with – until he introduces her to his girlfriend Sarah.

Despite Thea and Sarah’s initial reservations, the three fast become an inseparable trio.  Author Gina Butson brilliantly captures the heady nature of their friendship, played out in San Pedro La Laguna, a Guatemalan town on the southwest shore of Lake Atitlán. Beautifully expressed, it’s easy to imagine the vibrant place, rendered eloquently by Thea’s imaginings. San Pedro is where the hum of energy seems to inexplicably hold the trio together with the strength of shared friendship and the intoxicating pull of a different culture and way of life. One albeit tainted by the seedier side of drug trading life. An emerging catalyst of discontent soon reveals itself.  

Wonderfully written, each of the four parts of The Stars are a Million Glittering Worlds purposefully builds a narrative that is gentle though not passive, interchanging the past and present. When tragedy rewrites the trio’s journey and the nature of their intwined relationships, Thea finds herself far way again, this time in Tasmania, Australia navigating a new relationship of sorts.

It's a relationship and span of time that will test her, make her search unknowns, rail against past and present trauma, and rally against unanswered questions. Ultimately, it will lead to her figuring out a literal and metaphorical way home that is paved with resolution, self-exploration, and forgiveness.

At times throughout The Stars are a Million Glittering Worlds, I thought the story may end a different way. The lives of Thea, Sarah, and Chris seemed to hitch frequently on happenstance and an undercurrent of doubt, with understandings between the characters that to me suggested a different outcome… until it all panned out organically in a way that made sense.

Are you a believer or a sceptic? The kind of person who just wants to be entertained by the mere mention of magic or someone who needs to know the truth behind the smoke and mirrors? Illusionist Anthony Street – with what seems like nothing more than a flick of the wrist or a snap of his nimble fingers – leaves both camps spellbound.

From behind puffs of smoke and billowing satin flags, the Australian dream maker conjures up grand illusions for his audience of willing Wellington fans, fabricating worlds of wonder where anything is possible. He makes dancers Imogen Doody and Rachael Peters vanish seemingly into thin air – weren’t they just inside that sword-stabbed box not a moment before? Audience members are brought to the stage only to find their chosen cards appearing in the most unexpected places. A motorcycle somehow materialises at the flash of a perfectly timed lighting change (Xavier Dannock). Each one of us in the crowd, after performing a card trick according to the instructions, finds the three of diamonds tucked snuggly beneath our leg, just as Street predicted.

But it’s not just the illusions of grand scale that make Street’s audiences “ooh” and “aah” on cue. His skill and showmanship shine brightest in the smallest tricks, in the intimate moments of heartfelt humour, sentimental storytelling, and charming connection. Beginning the show by performing the first magic trick he ever saw, Street walks audiences down memory lane, tracking the standout moments that led him right here to The Opera House stage.

Watching eight-year-old Willow’s eyes light up as she helps Street levitate a table on stage or little Basil’s eyes widen in disbelief as the illusionist pulls coins from behind his ears and elbows are the truest and purest moments of magic. With stage manager Jeremy Evans in tow with a camera linked up to a projector screen above the stage, Street takes three rings from the audience and, before our eyes, links them together – I cannot for the life of me figure out how he did it. And truthfully, I don’t really want to know. Call me a believer, but I prefer to live in a world imbued with magic.

It’s been a long time since I have left the cinema with such a big smile on my face. Whether you want to attribute it to the heartwarming story, the irresistible charm of an exceptionally cute dragon named Toothless, or the fact that I have watched both this new live-action iteration and the original animated feature sat next to my mum in the cinema is your call. Regardless, I would bet that How to Train Your Dragon will make you smile as much as it did us.

If you, like me, recall staring starry eyed up at the screen when the animated movie How to Train Your Dragon was released in cinemas in 2010, then you’re in luck, because the live-action version is essentially a shot-for-shot remake. For those who didn’t grow up with the franchise, the first film in the series takes place in a Viking settlement that battles with dragon attacks daily. Descended from the best fighters of all the Viking tribes, the inhabitants of the Isle of Berk have been tasked with one job: kill all dragons. To chief Stoick the Vast’s (Gerard Butler) dismay, his son Hiccup (Mason Thames) either didn’t inherit the dragon-slayer gene or perhaps just sees the world a bit differently. When Hiccup befriends a dragon named Toothless, he never would have guessed that together they would turn the world upside down.

Written and directed by series creator Dean DeBlois, the live-action film sees Nick Frost in the teacherly role of Gobber the Belch, New Zealand’s own Julian Dennison as Hiccup’s classmate Fishlegs Ingerman, and Nico Parker of The Last of Us fame as Hiccup’s crush Astrid Hofferson alongside relative newcomer Thames and Butler reprising his original role. Together, they deliver a performance that captures the same charm and high-adrenaline spirit of the original cartoon without seeming over the top. The story and world are believable, and incredibly beautiful thanks to cinematographer Bill Pope’s sweeping shots of the Irish coast. The CGI has copped some criticism for not blending in well with its surroundings, but it looked seamless to my untrained eye. With excellent production design (Dominic Watkins), costumes (Lindsay Pugh), and dynamic editing (Wyatt Smith), How to Train Your Dragon is as joyful, adventurous, and fun as I remembered it so many moons ago.

John Ritchie’s Papanui Road Concert Overture was a brilliant opening piece in this programme. The road came to life in a series of distinct soundbites. It really was like walking down the street, checking the front gardens, peering up driveways, spotting locals, remembering events, and noticing what was going on.

Pianist Javier Perianes played Manuel de Falla’s Nights in the Gardens of Spain with a sound neither dominant nor lost in the orchestra. Just as the composer intended, all the musicians came together in a lovely unity of Andalusian, flamenco, North African, and classical traditions.

Ravel’s Piano Concerto in G Major is also an intermingling of styles, this time the composer’s Basque heritage and 1920s jazz. The opening whip crack tells you this is something different. The first and third movements have a tinge of jazz to go with the folk melodies. From the first piano notes – which were beautifully played – the balance and tone in the piano and orchestra were so seamless that in the second movement, it was as if the woodwind emerged from inside the piano, one after the other. Emilia Hoving’s conducting talent and style were really apparent here.

While playing in different time signatures in each hand is definitely challenging for the pianist, imagine the next level of difficulty this presents for the conductor. Hoving is a very talented, assured, and confident young director. Her distinctive style has been noted by commentators in the last couple of years. Here she appeared to be conducting a different time in each hand, each comfortably independent of the other.

Leading the orchestra into Stravinsky’s The Firebird, Hoving played with the opportunities the 13 movements presented to bring out some amazing solos from horns, strings, woodwind, and harp. The intensity and liveliness grew, building towards a thrilling finale. Waves of pulsing sound raised the heart rate, excitement, and the applause.

By the time Anatole Zsa-Zsa Korda’s sixth assassination attempt is underway, Wes Anderson’s orderly, well-balanced world has been blown to smithereens… quite literally. As for Korda (Benicio del Toro), he seems more annoyed than afraid.

We soon learn that this is nothing out of the ordinary for ‘Mr Five Percent’. The world’s most elusive businessman seems to profit from dubious dealings – hence the routine assassination attempts. Except this time, something has changed. After his latest plane crash, Korda had a vision: a Biblical, black and white cut scene in which he appears to be on trial for his life. Perhaps he died for a moment this time. Regardless, it won’t be his last vision or death

He decides to appoint his only daughter, Liesl (Mia Threapleton), a nun, as sole heir to his estate. Thus begins The Phoenician Scheme, setting Korda, Liesl, and Norwegian entomologist tutor-turned-administrative secretary Bjorn (Michael Cera) on a madcap venture to revolutionise the area formerly known as Phoenicia.

Written by director Anderson and Roman Coppola, The Phoenician Scheme, like any Anderson film, is distinctively his in every aspect. From sets to sound, dialogue to dramatics, the master of arthouse filmmaking has done it again. His latest is isolating yet intimate, microscopic yet monolithic, a perfectly choreographed two-step where moments of high-stakes intellect waltz onto the screen only to be replaced by a lindy hop of unhinged absurdity.  

Adam Stockhausen’s sets look as flimsy and fabricated as Korda’s grand scheme, while Bruno Delbonnel’s cinematography makes everything seem toy-like and distant yet still utterly personal and aesthetic as in true Anderson fashion. The score, crafted meticulously by Alexandre Desplat, is incessant. Like a dripping tap, it accompanies every breath, every argument, every drop of every pin. As messy as Korda’s world, it eats away at your sanity as the story devolves into chaos and uncertainty.

Add flat lays, extreme long shots for exposition, and hyper-detailed closeups overflowing with props and the result is a reality that seems both utterly fabricated and inherently real, chaotic and choreographed, impossible and familiar. Despite its orderly appearance and general dreaminess, The Phoenician Scheme is a world of inconsistencies, opposites, coincidences, tragedies, and miracles. Like every Wes Anderson film, it’s a bit like life itself.

A story as dark and cold as a Wellington winter night, The Fox gently unravels a modestly content household in the pursuit of happiness. Inspired by D. H. Lawrence’s novella of the same name, Keith Scott’s The Fox follows Jill Banford (Yasmine Alani) and Nellie March (Lottie Butcher), who live a humble life on a farm. Things go awry when Henry Grenfel (Sven Hoerler) returns from fighting in World War I to the homestead his grandfather had once owned, now the abode of Jill and Nellie.

The Fox is drenched in symbolism, which is often overlooked in plays, but the actors do well to emphasise phrases so that the audience can easily understand the references. Whether it is the titular fox or a deer, everything in the script has a deeper meaning. It takes paying a penny for your thoughts to a whole new level. We are prompted to view everyday life through a different lens, eager to dissect the meaning in everything. The Fox serves as a warning about the place we put men in our lives and homes and the damage they can cause.

The cast keep the audience engaged throughout – no mean feat for just three actors – and portray their characters with nuance, showing us the complexity and frailty of their relationships. I particularly enjoy the queer coding between Jill and Nellie.

The set (Ewen Coleman) provides the perfect backdrop and really feels like the quaint home Nellie and Jill have spent years perfecting. It is also refreshing to see how well utilised the set is, as each part serves a purpose.

This Wellington Repertory Theatre production will get you pondering on many levels as it asks a question about the cost of happiness and whether it is achievable. I know I will still be thinking of it in the days ahead. Come in from the cold and see for yourself the damage a fox can do.